


Eating Machine

by Anonymous



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Anal Fingering, Belly Kink, Chubformers, Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Pre-War, Rivalry, Semi-Public Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing (Transformers), Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29756403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Breakdown gets Bulkhead's attention in an unorthodox way. An impromptu drinking contest leads to a moment of unexpected intimacy.
Relationships: Breakdown/Bulkhead (Transformers)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15
Collections: Anonymous





	Eating Machine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fuel Shortage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28328580) by Anonymous. 



> Written for the Tumblr request “breakdown and bulkhead see how much one can intake more then the other, then the situation gets more intimate then expected.”
> 
> Breakdown/Bulkhead is one of my favorite rarepairs, and this thing turned into a monster. Kept the focus mostly on the kink, rather than the sex.

“Heard they call you Bulkhead,” drawled the steelworker, sprawled over two barstools. He reeked of the foundry; petcoke-stained grease leaked from between his seams. “Yeah, I can see why.”

It had been a good metacycle for industry; the market was flush with cash, and the  _ Dirty Mudflap _ was thronged with young foundrymechs and construction workers. Handsome mechs, by and large, and by and large they knew it.

Bulkhead, who’d never been handsome, watched them flirt with fond not-quite-nostalgia.

It had taken him three solar cycles to approach the stocky warframe. He’d leaned almost casually against the bar—

The warframe wiped his mouth with his forearm. Hiccuped. Up close he smelled of diesel and old grease, virile and filthy. “You in construction? What are you, the wrecking ball?”

Bulkhead felt every kilo of his weight, like a suit of hot iron. “Forget it.”

His designation was Breakdown; he was Velocitronian, it was rumored (though Bulkhead doubted that); he was an oaf and a thug and a lowlife.

Well-built mechs often were: an arrogant pack of bullies, in Bulkhead’s estimation. Swaggering. Thickheaded. So he tried to forget Breakdown—the thick pistons in his forearms, the lopsided grin, the heat and diesel-stink rolling off him—

But Breakdown had no intention, it seemed, of forgetting him.

After lobbing matches, Breakdown seized Bulkhead roughly round the waist, slapping his back. His touch lingered for a klik too long.

As Breakdown elbowed roughly through the bar’s crowds, his palm brushed—with enough force to tingle—across Bulkhead’s belly.

  
  


In the murky joors of the morning, Bulkhead spat into his palm and imagined—

—wrestling in the filthy lot outside the bar, tasting Energon and Visco—

—rolling on the ground, shards of glass nicking his armor, thrusting a knee between Breakdown’s sturdy legs—

—breathing Breakdown’s exhaust, kissing him sloppy and raw from behind, and shoving a thick finger into the manual catch of his port’s plating. It’d retract with a click, and Breakdown would grunt and hiss, his tight vermilion-red port dripping with lubricant—

—and Bulkhead would take him, rough and dirty, against the bar wall. All his weight he’d rest on Breakdown, his soft gut nestling into Breakdown’s lower back—

—and the thought of that pushed him over into a blaze of light.

No, he told himself. He was no bully.

“Those joints sound kinda like my ball bearings,” grunted Breakdown, on his sixth Visco. “Oughtta lose a couple, Bulkhead.”

They’d won the lobbing match handily; Breakdown always drank himself stupid when they won. As often as not, he drank half an oil tanker when they lost.

It had been a good metacycle; his accounts were flush, his creditors paid. There was Shanix to spare for liquor and fuel—and Bulkhead was a tired and middle-aged mech, with neither conjunx nor amica to his name, and no one to care how he spent his wages.

Wheeljack was out of town again—”research,” he’d said vaguely—and had been for stellar cycles.

So Bulkhead took the company he could get.

“Yeah, you’re a real comedian. I get it. I’m fat.” Bulkhead shifted. His aft sagged over the chair on either side, spilling out the back; his belly slumped onto his thighs, tugging on his armor. His own body weighed him down. He was putting on weight—

— _ and so was Breakdown _ . It hit Bulkhead like a shockwave. Breakdown had been hefty and solid, a wall of metal; now his armor swelled outward, plating distorted beneath the weight of a substantial paunch. A laborer’s big belly.

Bulkhead stared. He couldn’t help it.

As Breakdown leaned forward, pulling the bucket of silicon chips to his side of the table, his belly bunched into three thick rolls; as he sat back with a grunt of relief, his gut trembled. And still, mindlessly, Breakdown shoveled handfuls of chips into his mouth. He licked salts from his gleaming lips, hiccuping.

He could, it occurred to Bulkhead, humiliate Breakdown.  _ Oughtta lose a couple around the fuel tanks, buddy. _

He shook it off. He was no bully.

In the lonely night he imagined—

—pinning Breakdown against bar tables damp with grime. Breakdown would grin, licking his lips with such appetite—

“Feeling like teasing me?” Bulkhead growled in the privacy of his mind. Breakdown would laugh his mad, distracted laugh—and his burgeoning belly would shake, and beneath his weight the whole table would rattle—

“Still hungry?” Bulkhead heard his dream-self boom. “You want  _ more _ ? Let’s fill you up.”

And as he thrust into the plush wet warmth, he’d press a chilled bottle of Visco to Breakdown’s lips. Breakdown would drink it greedily, eagerly chugging it down, and through his spongy mesh Bulkhead would feel his tanks cooling and sloshing. With every thrust, Breakdown’s mesh would wobble, and he’d hiccup and moan and laugh and curse—

And imagining the ugly joy on Breakdown’s handsome face, Bulkhead overloaded, feeling as filthy as the transfluid staining his hands.

He’d felt for an instant like Breakdown: wild and brutal. Bulkhead slumped back, staring at the gentle pools of the twin moons’ light trickling down his wall.

“I am  _ so _ , _ so stupid _ ,” he muttered to no one. “I’m letting him get to me.”

He skipped the next lobbing match, and the next. So it was in the dishwater-dull shadows at the  _ Dirty Mudflap _ ’s bar that he spotted Breakdown next.

Bulkhead did a double take. Degaussed his optics.

It was as if someone had pumped Breakdown full of liquid metal. His belly, round as a truck tire, hung, wobbling, from a thicker frame. His aft’s plating, always loose, now strained to cover a fat backside; it swelled out behind him like his spare tire. Bulkhead could’ve rested a drink on it. His thighs spread comfortably under his weight.

In two quartexes, Breakdown must have gained a ton. Easily more.

Still his face was angular. He caught Bulkhead’s optic, grinning like a Scraplet, and downed his mug of Visco.

Bulkhead glanced away.

  
  


In the cold darkness of his washrack, he imagined pinning Breakdown’s arms above his head. Imagined groping densely packed mesh, hefting Breakdown’s colossal belly. Feeling every plush kilo. 

He’d worn his body so long and so well he scarcely noticed it; yet seeing Breakdown had jarred something in him. Bulkhead found himself  _ noticing _ himself: the soft insistent jiggle of his stomach; its heft as he bent over, making him grunt; how he held his shoulders back, adjusting always for the iron weight of his flab.

He’d been Sparked robust, and he’d grown over millennia—had done in thousands of stellar cycles what Breakdown had done in quartexes.

He wondered.

“So you’re, uh—healthy—” It sounded weak, and Breakdown seized on it.

“Fat a dirty word, Bulkhead?” He snickered, slapping his solid thigh. “Funny for  _ you _ to be shy about it.”

Bulkhead boggled.

They sat knee-to-knee in the packed bar; reflected biolights tinged Breakdown’s armor a thousand murky colors. HIs optics gleamed, manically bright.

“Way I see it, you’ve still got the edge on me.”

_ Still _ . A word packed with implicit promises. Bulkhead’s vocoder clicked as he swallowed. It was, after all, a lot of weight in two quartexes. “Getting pretty big. You doing OK?”

At once he regretted asking. Breakdown was all iron and swagger; compassion glanced off him.

“Never felt better.” Breakdown’s grin was vicious. “Bartender, get me whatever he’s having.”   
  


The  _ Dirty Mudflap _ ’s patrons, to a mech, grew fat over the vorns: oversized bellies brushed tables, and grunts of relief echoed as the patrons sat.

But few seemed  _ smug _ about it.

Breakdown was  _ competing _ with him, some game he’d never agreed to. The thought looped in the deepest banks of Bulkhead’s processor. Breakdown was trying to get his attention. (The  _ bearings _ it took.)

He wondered if Breakdown was crazy; he wondered, with a prickle of shame, if Breakdown thought of him as he thought of Breakdown.

In his fantasies he tasted diesel. His pistons snapped; his cables cracked. Grease gummed his fingers’ workings. They’d been wrestling. The air seemed alive with charge. His connector ached beneath its plate, pressurized and ready.

“I’m still  _ bigger _ ,” he growled, and Breakdown laughed that vacant, maddening laugh.

“Not for long.”

  
  


Breakdown’s vents steamed; he cracked his back with a groan and a colossal creak. As he arched his spinal struts, he thrust his belly forward—as if showing off.

Bulkhead tried not to look. It was impossible to look away. A tangle of wires pulsed low in his gut.

It was the end of the night, and the  _ Dirty Mudflap _ was subdued. Bulkhead had broken up two brawls and had been paid in free drinks; in his seat at the far end of the bar, wreathed in shadow, Breakdown had gestured for his own drinks.

“I’ll have,” growled Breakdown now, “whatever he’s having.”

They were forty-three gallons in. Bulkhead knew in his kernel that Breakdown had kept pace, drink for drink.

It showed; every drink showed. Breakdown’s swagger was becoming a waddle, his globe of a belly steering him forward and his thighs squeaking as they rubbed together. His arms swung carelessly to steady him.

Sitting, he rested a hand lovingly on his gut—

—and his gut would make it impossible, Bulkhead realized with a pulse of heat through his fiber optics, for them to interface belly-to-belly. He imagined in an electric flash the crushing heat of Breakdown’s embrace, the pressure of Breakdown’s fat stomach, so soft and yet so unyielding—or else bloated and firm beneath an exploring hand—

Bulkhead shook himself, though the arousal in his belly tightened, a hot snarl he could not have begun to unpick.

He drained his mug. The chilled Engex brought no relief; it sat in his tanks, spreading a dizzying iciness through him. And still his belly burned.

At the end of the bar, Breakdown downed his own Engex, thumping his chest. “Same again.”

Bulkhead swallowed. No—no, he would not—

As if Breakdown had reached into his neural net, as if Breakdown were playing with him like a toy, Bulkhead heard himself speak. “Same for me.”

Breakdown met his gaze, grinning. His once-hollow cheeks were filling in, the copper flushing. His lips gleamed.

So the game was on, then.

The barmech glanced between them, brow ridges rising. With a shrug he poured the Engex; it glowed brighter than the bar’s neon lights, tinting everything around it brilliantly blue. The barmech slid both mugs down the bar with a wet squeal, leaving trails of icy condensation.

“Bottoms up, buddy,” said Bulkhead, warningly.

Breakdown had already downed his. With a ringing belch he slammed it back down. “Next.”

He couldn’t have tasted his drink.

“You want to play that way?” His hand seemed to move on its own. Bulkhead slugged his own, half in disbelief at himself. His fuel gauge ticked upward. The Engex sat like ice in his gut; it’d left a tingle on his lips. “Be my guest.”

Breakdown wiped his mouth with his massive forearm. Smirked.

He’d thought Breakdown handsome once, from a distance. Now Bulkhead tasted flint and diesel as their optics met.

He picked up his next drink and drained it dry. It scarcely washed the bitter taste from his chemoreceptors. 

At the end of the bar, Breakdown slugged his own drink with an extravagant sigh. “Gimme the works. I’m a thirsty bot tonight.” He punctuated it with a hiccup and a thump on his tanks. “I’ll take the oil balls, too.”

Bulkhead felt his gut roil at the thought. He was filling faster than he’d expected, his tanks complaining with a queasy growl. “Whatever he gets—”

“—make it double.” Breakdown cut him off, leering. “For both of us.” For an instant he raised a hand to his temple. His arms were growing fatter, too, the strong pistons buried in mesh. He’d jiggle with every hammer-blow—

The ping arrived on Bulkhead’s HUD:  _ Let’s see if you pop a rivet, wide-load. _

_ You first _ . It was automatic.  _ Little guy. _

He’d struck home. Breakdown scowled, showing teeth. It suited him. One after another, he swallowed the oil-balls, sucking the petroleum from his fingers with an obscene smack; all the while he met Bulkhead’s gaze.

It was a come-on.

Bulkhead turned his head, pointedly.

The first oil-ball went down smooth; the second melted in his mouth. Oral lubricant welled up, thick and sweet. His appetite was flagging. Bulkhead hesitated. His fans were picking up; he felt weighed down, his tanks aching with sweet fullness. 

But Breakdown was still gulping down petroleum balls by the handful. Oil glistened on nicked lips: he had a gladiator’s manners. Bulkhead felt almost dainty.

Slowly Bulkhead dragged his gaze away again. Breakdown didn’t deserve the satisfaction.

The last of the oil balls melted, cloying and thick, in his mouth. Bulkhead washed it down with a swallow of Engex.

_ You slowing down? _ The ping whooshed across his comms array.  _ Not like you, Bulkhead. Would’ve thought a big fat mech like you had more of an appetite. _

So Breakdown was watching him, then, and closely. Bulkhead’s faceplate burned; he felt condensation beading on his brow, heat stinging his optics.  _ You turn my tanks _ .

Breakdown laughed aloud, loudly and drunkenly. His vocoder hiccuped.  _ You don’t like my manners?  _ He thumped his chest with a sound like a gong. Hiccuped again. “That’s for you, Bulkhead.”

A murmur ran round the bar. The bartender’s brow-ridges rose again.

The knot of wiring in Bulkhead’s belly pulled tight, unexpectedly. Perhaps it was the strain on his system; perhaps it was the Engex soaking into his circuits. A vision flashed before him, so real his mini-servos whirred and his fingers twitched—

_ —bending Breakdown over the bar _ , so roughly his overtaxed joints would squeal. Breakdown would grunt and huff, his fuel tanks rumbling. He’d grind back against Bulkhead, their armor squeaking. Throwing sparks. Breakdown’s thighs were thick as steel pylons, and his bumper well-padded with mesh—

Bulkhead tried to blink away the image. 

Still he felt his fingers digging into Breakdown’s fat sides, pinching the bulges of mesh over his pelvic girdle. Squeezing a belly as bloated and strained as Bulkhead’s own. Feeling Breakdown’s tanks gurgle through the hot, crackling mesh.

The Engex went lukewarm in his intake. He swallowed hard, staring at the glow of the bar-lights until his optics slipped out of focus. Until the rumble of the bar faded into a distant murmur; until there was nothing in the world but him and Breakdown.

He was a gentle bot, he told himself; Breakdown’s swagger sickened him, like Breakdown’s brutish manners, like his laugh—

He’d drink Breakdown under the table. They’d eat and drink themselves into a stupor; they’d wake up groggy and aching; and  _ nothing _ would happen. A civilized kind of fight.

_ You give? _ Breakdown’s ping was oddly intimate. As if Breakdown were speaking into his Spark.  _ Lemme guess. You ate before you got here. _

_Mute up._ _We’re not here to talk._

Inexorably his gaze drifted back to Breakdown. With a little groan, he noticed that Breakdown’s gut filled most of his lap when he sat; it swelled out huge and round, giving his breastplate a padded shelf to rest on. So heavy it’d be in Bulkhead’s hands, bloated with food and Engex. Small wonder Breakdown was starting to waddle, huffing faintly with every step.

Bulkhead closed his optics again. Why was he thinking about this?

_ Like what you see? _ Breakdown might have been whispering in his audial.  _ That’s adorable. You’re gonna go home and yank your crank thinking about me. That’s real cute, Bulkhead. _

Bulkhead’s connector twitched, and a warm horror spread through him.

“Bartender,” he began hastily—

“—gimme a gallon of Tarnian sweet-crude.” Breakdown’s voice was self-amused. Like an Insecticon playing with prey.

_ Can you reach it, Bulkhead? Must be pretty tiny on a body like yours. _

_ Go home and self-service.  _ Still Bulkhead’s connector squeaked, barely audible, against its plate.  _ Keep your sick stuff to yourself. _

_ Mine’s bigger _ .

For a klik Bulkhead was lost for words. His optics flickered open; he met Breakdown’s gaze. (Breakdown grinned hugely, patting his massive thigh.)

The sweet-crude slid across the bar, thick and gleaming like a pit of stars. Bulkhead took a tentative sip. It  _ was _ sweet, and almost queasily rich. It clung to his intake going down.

At the other end of the bar, Breakdown drained his mug. With a low whistle he set it down on the bar, massaging his side. Perhaps it was Bulkhead’s imagination—but he was flagging too, his expression for an instant pained. His big chest heaved, rivets squeaking.

Bulkhead wondered again—despite himself—how soft that belly would feel beneath his fingers. How Breakdown would squirm with relief, grunting and panting, as Bulkhead’s fingers dug deep into his gut.

“You give, Bulkhead?” mumbled Breakdown, hiccuping. His voice was rough, his vocoder strained. He might’ve just run three kilometers—or else interfaced long and hard and raw.

“You wish.” As Bulkhead settled back, the pressure of his armor on his own gut made him groan. Breakdown’s optics brightened.

He was so, so stupid. He’d let Breakdown goad him—

Breakdown stretched, spinal struts popping. Belched again. Groaned. “Same again, bar-bot.”

They ate; they drank. Slowly but surely the weight in Bulkhead’s tanks grew, and so did the sweet soporific ache. His connector ached too, unsettlingly.

He’d never thought much about his weight. It’d been a constant, like the ache in his cables after a long day.

But Breakdown’s appetite was impossible to look away from for long.

Bulkhead slid a finger under his belly’s plating, as subtly as he could manage. Even the soft overhang of his gut felt painfully swollen. His drinking had slowed to a crawl.

Without looking, he knew Breakdown was aching too. The pain felt oddly intimate. A sweet, strange connection.

_ You give up, Bulkhead? _ It felt like a warm breeze on his burning faceplate.

It took a second to access his comms frequencies. Everything seemed slow as warm oil, as if the Tarnian sweet-crude were clogging his circuits. Bulkhead buried his faceplate in his hands.  _ Not on your life. _

The crowd was whispering still. Bulkhead felt a dozen cool stares on his back. They must look funny, he supposed: two fat-bellied bots stuffing their tanks until they creaked.

Unbidden, unwanted, the image came to him: Breakdown’s huge hands massaging his belly, digging through the mesh. He imagined the tight circles of Breakdown’s fingertips, vividly; he imagined the sharp pain and the dull relief. As real as the pain in his gut, he imagined Breakdown slapping his belly softly, snorting at the jiggle like an earthquake.

Bulkhead took another swallow. For an instant his intake seemed to close up. A capacity warning flickered across his HUD:  _ redirect to long-term storage? _

He accepted. The rattling gurgle as his tanks reconfigured was almost as uncomfortable as the fullness.

“Forget it, Breakdown. I’m done,” he mumbled, and Breakdown’s roar of sickening laughter dissolved into a hiccup and a groan.

Outside he found Breakdown leaning against the wall, steaming. Night had long since fallen, the darkness warm and velvety.

“You drinking and driving?” Bulkhead felt himself sway, pulled off balance by his belly. He felt less like a labor-caste, and more like a fuel tanker.

Breakdown grunted, his rivets squeaking beneath the weight of his gut. “Wish I was. Can’t get into my alt.” His armor did not quite fit him; as he stretched again, his belly wobbled.

A strangely vulnerable admission. Bulkhead’s tanks churned. Already he was fatter, he knew, his system busily turning the fuel to warm cushion.

And Breakdown—

His gaze found Breakdown’s indicators, glowing orange in the steamy dark. Lighting the soft ripe swell of his aft, spilling out from beneath his straining plating. Bulkhead could’ve reached out and slapped it.

Bulkhead’s motor turned over.

“I don’t care  _ what _ game you’re playing, Breakdown. I’m done with you.”

Breakdown’s laugh whistled through his plating; his gut quaked. “Sure you are. I know that slack-jawed look. You’re crazy for me.” He turned, crushing littered cans into tinfoil beneath his heel-strut. Breakdown grinned broadly, infuriatingly. “You can’t get  _ enough _ of me.”

He reeked of Engex and hot rubber, and the air blasting from his fans was humid as a summer storm.

“You want  _ more _ ? I’ll give you more.” Almost lazily he patted his gut, wincing (packed full with too much food). His stress-marks winked in the glow of his lights, rough streaks of metal at the edges of his plates. “You might be big, Bulkhead, but I’m catching up with you—”

“Go ahead.” Bulkhead’s vocoder clicked. “I don’t care.”

Though he did, he realized. The weight suited Breakdown: he looked thuggish and thick. A mech of big appetites.

Breakdown’s optics glowed with sleazy satisfaction. “You’re a lucky bot, Bulkhead. I’m too full to total your fat behind.”

It was the easy cruelty that did it. Bulkhead lunged, ungainly and off-balance; the ground teetered below him. Still he caught Breakdown’s wrists. Slammed him against the filthy wall. As he leaned in, his belly pressed into Breakdown’s; the edge of Breakdown’s chestplate found his headlights.

A spark leapt between them with a hot crackle. He was tasting Breakdown’s diesel-fumes, feeling his roaring engine. His connector pulsed, in time with the purr of his motor.

From the look in Breakdown’s narrowed optics, he felt the charge running through Bulkhead. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Humiliation. Bulkhead stared for a nanocycle, aghast, feeling as if Breakdown had ripped out his engine. He  _ knew _ .

“Hey, lunkhead. I’m talking to you.”

“You won’t be talking to  _ anybody _ with that mouth,” snarled Bulkhead, giving Breakdown’s arm a little twist—

—and instantly his belly churned. He’d let Breakdown drag him down again. How brutal his fantasies had been, how rough. The queasiness spreading through him had little to do with his packed tanks.

With a disgusted grunt he let Breakdown’s wrists drop. “I might be.”

In the merciful dark they regarded each other. Breakdown’s grin twisted; a dimple formed in his fuller cheek.

“Sit down.” Bulkhead gestured shortly to a stack of crates. “Before I change my mind.”

Breakdown looked for a klik about to retort; he dropped onto the crates with a tremendous thud. Beneath his weight they whined. He looked sleazy, debauched: drunk on Energon and arrogance.

Bulkhead settled beside him, grimacing as his thighs pressed into his overstuffed belly. (The crates creaked threateningly beneath his weight, too.) “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

The air rolling through Breakdown’s fans was scorching; his armor clattered with every tiny movement.

Gently, Bulkhead placed a hand on the upper curve of his belly, where his grille dug into his mesh. Breakdown shuddered; his gasp made his stomach quake. “What—”

“Shut up.” Bulkhead explored with cautious fingertips. Breakdown’s armor was straining, the old rivets pulled taut around a much larger stomach. There was little give in the plating. It must, Bulkhead thought with a glimmer of unwelcome sympathy, be painful. “You should get that loosened.”

For a moment Breakdown seemed about to snarl something; instead, as if despite himself, he went gradually limp. Pistons relaxed with a squeak, and the pressure drained from his hydraulic lines.

Bulkhead’s fingers dug deeper, through the thick mound of mesh. A low, rattling gurgle rose from Breakdown’s tanks, and Breakdown let out a tiny grunt.

“I didn’t tell you to—”

“And I didn’t ask.” He hefted Breakdown’s stomach, feeling the tremendous weight. How odd it must feel, and how heavy, to a mech who’d been lean the stellar cycle before. “Put it in storage. You feel like you’re about to pop.”

He’d expected an argument. Instead Breakdown lay back, his optics flickering. “Whatever you say.” The air filled with the familiar groan of fuel lines engaging. All the while Bulkhead stroked Breakdown’s gut, rubbing the plush rolls at his sides and the velvety-soft hang over his pelvic girdle. 

Breakdown was exquisitely touchable: the contrast between heavy armor and pudgy belly was striking, delicious. Bulkhead’s fingers felt as sensitive as his connector, and as hungry. 

“Lemme do yours,” said Breakdown abruptly, with a hiccup. “Don’t like owing favors.”

Bulkhead’s own belly ached, full and round and taut. His fiber optics prickled hopefully at the thought. And yet—

No. He would not let Breakdown win at Bulkhead’s game.

“You know how you can pay me back?” He traced sweeping lines down Breakdown’s belly, over the gap between hip and thigh, and down into his inner-thigh seams, where overfed mesh swelled outward. Breakdown’s thighs rubbed: the insides had worn almost smooth.

Breakdown’s optics half-shuttered. His uneasy look showed teeth. “I might have an idea.”

Bulkhead’s fingers worked backward, finding Breakdown’s fat bumper. His aft spread luxuriously under his weight: on either side of his pelvic girdle he carried a soft, thick deposit of mesh. His body wasn’t built for it; his armor scarcely covered it.

Thick thighs. Fat aft. Breakdown was built to socket.

Bulkhead’s fingertip found the manual release. Breakdown’s plating snapped back with a squeak.

“Go ahead,” rumbled Bulkhead. “Tell me to stop.”

He was no bully.

Breakdown’s motor growled. He shook his head, as if in a daze. “Yeah. No. I mean, uh, yeah. Don’t stop.”

“Processor’s only got one circuit, huh, Breakdown?” His fingertip circled Breakdown’s port, sweet and tight and warm. A trickle of hot lubricant ran down his finger, seeping into the seams. Breakdown’s hips bucked; gently Bulkhead pushed him down. “Here it comes.”

His finger slipped inside that lush warmth, catching slightly on the silicone. In his arms Breakdown’s whole body quivered; a low, pleading groan escaped his vocoder.

Bulkhead felt every kilo of his weight, softly pinning Breakdown against the crates. His motor turned over; his connector ached against its plate, tight as his overstuffed belly.

He pushed deeper.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, find me at deceptichubs.tumblr.com for more belly kink.


End file.
